So This is How the Story Goes
by Queen of the Dark Knight
Summary: Dean didn't think it would end like this. With his baby brother dead on a bed, Dean standing over him remembering. WIncest. Character death. Happy ending? Feels. You have been warned. One-shot.


**AN: This was for my 10,000th post on Tumblr (since I've missed every other hallmark post number), in honor of the fandom that got me onto that (horrible? wonderful? Still not sure) website. TRIGGER WARNING: there is incest, totally consensual incest. Sorry if it sucks.- QDK**

**So This Is How The Story Gos**

Dean hadn't thought it would end like this. He always knew that he would die on the job, but Sammy, his Sammy deserved so much better. He should have gone surrounded by fat grandchildren with a perfect wife clutching him, smiling at him through the tears in her eyes. It was a cliché, but one Dean had always wanted for his little brother. Sam deserved an apple pie life. He could have been an amazing lawyer. An amazing husband. An amazing father. Everything that Dean could never be, never have, he wanted for his brother.

He wanted him to be happy, for once in their miserable existence. Because Sam was the only one who ever made him feel that way, like the sun could go out and the world could end, but he'd be alright because he had a brother brighter who practically oozed goodness. And his brother had given him a kind of light that was so much brighter than a thousand stars. God, he was being so melodramatic. He had always poked fun at Sam for being girly, hiding behind the face of a butch hunter so his brother wouldn't see how fucked up he was. God, he wished he could take every moment back. Every time he pushed his brother away. Every time he hide himself away, terrified of what Sam would say, what he'd think behind those beautiful eyes.

They could have had so much longer then. Years of forcing himself to not look, not stare. Years of pretending he didn't care whenever Sam went home with someone else for a night. Years of biting his tongue so he wouldn't moan _Sammy_ against whatever willing body he could find to make some of the temptation away. But even finding solace in another's flesh only left him feeling even more disgusting, imagining it was his little brother writhing under his careful ministrations.

He remembers the first time he saw his brother die. Sammy on his knees in the muddy field, blood trickling down his back. He remembers standing in a door way watching his dead baby brother, waiting for the rise of his chest. _Come on Sammy._ He remembers thinking. _Please. You can't leave me. Come back._ He remembers pressing his lips to the forehead of the dead man before him. The skin there was not that of his Sammy. It lacked the warmth, the glow, the goodness that shone out of _his_ brother.

He remembers remembering. He remembered all the firsts. The first time Sam walked, taking tiny tottering steps towards him. He remembered Sam's first mumbled, barely coherent word "De". That nickname had stuck until John had told Sam to stop being so childish, call Dean by his name for Christ's sake. He remembers teaching his brother how to defending himself, patiently shooting at cans with the young boy even when John had given up and returned inside to his bottle of Jack. He remembers Sam's first play, remembers waving at the nervous actor and catching a small quirk of lips in return at his soccer mom impression. He remembers his brother's first exorcism, perfect Latin shaped by perfect lips. He remembers his brother's first broken bone, an accident involving a tree and a gang of bullies. He remembers his brother's first time hurt on a hunt, Dean freaking out over his unconscious Sammy, clutching him to his chest, and later stitching up the gash that ran just under his hair line. It took eight stitches to pull the gash shut. He had been so careful. So careful so his beautiful brother would remain beautiful to the rest of the world, even if Dean thought he was just as beautiful bloodied and bruised, with black eyes and split lips, as long as he smiled at Dean.

There are more things to remember now. Now that his Sammy is dead, and not coming back this time. He remembers healing Sammy after the trials. He remembers talking him out of killing himself, just so he could prove himself to Dean. He remembers finding that stupid fake voicemail; he remembers hearing it when he unexpectedly walked back into the motel room and heard his own voice coming from the bathroom. He remembers holding Sam, as his brother realized that Dean had never hated him, even when he thought he no longer had a soul. He remembers seeing Sam's soul held in the hand of Death himself; he remembers thinking that his soul could never shine so brightly, that no one's ever could. He remembers defeating Metatron, demolishing the demon soul trade, overcoming each big bad as they came.

He remembers the first time he and Sam kissed. They had just found out exactly what happened in that church in the eyes of God. The hands held, the commitment made had given Dean almost exactly what he wanted. And he hated it. Hated that Sam, his Sammy, was now tied to his ugly twistedness. Sammy had found his brother drunk, in a bar, after he had stormed off. Sam had asked, _What is it? Does this bother you so much?_

_ No man_, he had said, blasted out of his mind, _it's exactly what I've always wanted. Just not how I thought I'd get it_. Sam had just smiled, relieved, and held Dean's face between his hands as he kissed him long and sweetly. First kisses aren't supposed to be perfect. Sam's kisses always were, even if they were covered in blood and guts. Sam's kisses were always perfect, better than PB&J sandwiches with the crusts cut off, better than pie, better than the feeling of exhausted triumph after the hunt. But they still kept hunting, even if now Dean had something better next to him. Family business and everything.

He remembers relishing the first time he asked for a room with a king bed, instead of two queens. He remembers sweaty body on top of sweaty body. He remembers panting _Sam Sam Oh Sammy_, and hearing _Dean oh De De ah Dean!_ in response. He remembers drifting off asleep soothed by the sound of his brother's breathing. He remembers pulling Sam closer, curling into and around him, until it was hard to tell where one of them began and the other ended, one multi-limbed sweaty mass of pure peace. He never had nightmares when he was tangled with Sam.

He remembers secret kisses and small grins meant only for him. He remembers seeing Sam staring uncomfortably at him as women and men alike hit on him during cases. He remembers going over and, depending on their cover, either standing too close to his brother to imply anything but what they were or giving him a wicked, sinfully long kiss before sliding his arm around his waist and pulling him against his side. He remembers quiet declarations of love, whispered against his skin or thrown into the air when he least expected it. Sam always had known when his brother felt like he was filled with black sticky disgusting bile. When it bubbled under his skin burning him with its ugliness, his brilliant little brother would grab him, grab his hand or his leg or his shoulder or his head and kiss him slow and sweet. It didn't matter where they were, what they were doing. Sam always knew how to protect his big brother from himself.

Once, the darkness wouldn't stop scalding him from within, chanting over and over again _not good enough for him never can be good enough for perfect Sammy_. Sam had been out, making sure the ones they saved were alright. By the time he returned, Dean couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but mumble an endless mantra _don't deserve it not good enough poor little Sammy stuck with me_. He remembers Sam dropping his bag, shouting his name, rushing over to crouch next to his big brother. He remembers this like it happened to someone else. It wasn't until he felt a small object in his hand that he returned to himself enough to see who was wrapped around him. The object was warm, and he remembers looking down at it in astonishment, before asking, voice cracked _how?_

_ Couldn't let you throw it away_, Sam said taking the amulet back and sliding it over Dean's head. It rested against his chest like it had always, the place where he always unconsciously reached for it before remembering the shame of throwing away the one gift that meant everything to him. He remembers crying then, big gasping sobs, his face buried in Sam. The mantra of _not good enough_ changed to _oh god Sammy, oh god I love you so much little brother_. He remembers that being the first time he admitted that to Sam, without the familial pretext.

He doesn't want to remember how Sam died. Doesn't want to remember the blood, the warmth of it fading; Sam's goodness trickling out of him in wispy golden sunlight. He just wants his brother to breathe again. He wants to hear Sam's heart beat again. If he came back to life r_ight now, right this very instant_, Dean would be happy. But angels stay in heaven now, and demons no longer make deals, and so Sam isn't going to come back this time.

This wasn't how Dean thought it would end. This wasn't what he wanted. But that's alright. He pulls out his Taurus, the gun that had so fascinated a younger Sam. He touches the amulet, where it remains as warm as it was the day Sam had given it back to him like his penance, like his salvation. Like the amulet still holds some of Sam's pure goodness. Like it wants him to know that Sam is waiting for him where ever he may be.

Dean remembers Ash implying that they were soul mates. He didn't need Ash to tell him the truth. He didn't need the trials to marry his little brother. He didn't need the angels telling him _he's special, he's Michael's vessel_. He didn't need this little world they had carved out for themselves, this world of pain and hunting and the Impala and the Batcave. He didn't even need the amulet. He just needed Sam.

So Dean lies down, and pulls his dead baby brother to his chest and arranges their limbs so they are just one mass and he can't tell where one of them begins and the other ends. He smiles at his brother. _Good God Sammy, you're turning me into a chick_. And his kisses him one last time, long and slow and languid, but it isn't perfect because Sam isn't here, Sam is waiting for him somewhere up in heaven. He points the gun at his stomach and pulls the trigger. The pain doesn't register. He's already too numb with pain to feel it.

He throws the gun away, and it lands somewhere near his duffle and Sam's duffle, and there is blood everywhere. And it seems that Sam has another first to give Dean, because for the first time Dean thinks that maybe his blood might be made of the same pure goodness that makes Sam so perfect. Dean will never shine as brightly as his brother, but maybe, in the end, the darkness only dimmed his light a little and didn't snuff it out when he was a child. Sam could see it, see under the darkness to the light because he always believed in Dean when Dean couldn't believe in himself.

There is goodness filling up his heart, and blood leaking out of the hole he put in his side. He knows objectively that he's dying, but this time it feels different. It feels like he's coming alive, like he's coming home to the only home he's ever almost always had. He knows objectively that it is the blood loss and the dying, but Sam is getting warmer and the amulet lies between them and the only thing Dean can see is Sam's beautiful face. He has a little more time to study it; his eyes trace the check bones, the closed eyes, the parted lips, the scar along his hair line that he had stitched together so carefully. Sam's warm now, and Dean can pretend he's sleeping, though he doesn't hear his brother breathing. _I'm comin' Sammy_.

Dean dies with his eyes open, studying the face of the man he loves. And when he knows he's past, because after all, he's died so many times before, he looks up. He sees Death above him, and standing next to the man who funnily enough has become an almost father-figure, is Sam. Beautiful, golden, perfect, good Sam. And he is the baby Dean held in his arms and he is the boy he protected against bullies and he is the man who loved him enough to defeat the Devil and he is the lover who made Dean feel truly wanted for the first time in his life. But most of all, he's his baby brother who will always love him and protect him, even when he doesn't deserve either.

And for the first time, Dean understands why Sam is so beautiful, so good. It's in the tears in his eyes, the small lopsided smile, the quivering lips that don't say words but tell Dean _I'm so sorry I left you alone, I love you, don't hurt anymore_. It's because Sam loves him so purely that nothing can stop it shining through his skin. And when Sam's arm reaches out, Dean jumps up off the bed and grabs Sam's face between his hands and kisses his baby brother like he is the air he breathes. Even Death looks touched at the pure love coming off the two in waves.

And when they pull back from each other, _Sam asks I thought no chick flick moments_, and for the first time since Sam's heart stopped beating, Dean can smile and feels like his heart is back where it always belonged. _With his Sammy_.


End file.
